“How perfectly awful. But I expect she’ll come back,” yawned Winnie.
It had become more essential to Cliffe than anything else in the whole world, that Winifred Potter should be made to display some rending emotion.
“No. She won’t come back. I ... happen to know she won’t come back, you see.”
Winnie dangled her bare braceletted arm over the side of the sofa and picked up a cushion which had slid to the ground.
“Why? Do you know where she is?”
“No. Only where she isn’t. Only where she isn’t, Winnie. And that’s on earth.”
... After all, it was merely the question of the novelette. Now that Cliffe had really produced a thrill which out-rivalled even “The Sin of Lady Jacynth” by Coronal, Winnie immediately yielded him what he coveted in the way of attention all agape. She was personally acquainted with neither Deb nor Lady Jacynth, but Cliffe had proved himself a better author than Coronal.
“—Dead?”
He nodded curtly, and stood for a moment with eyes fixed on the carpet ... then bent and cut off a loose strand absently with his penknife ... seemed on the verge of speaking ... thought better of it. Winifred watched him; her light blue eyes were circles of horror and fascination.
“She’s not dead,” abruptly; “forget that I said it. I ought not—Ought I?—I don’t know.... Upon my soul, I don’t know....” he began to stalk the room, hair falling shaggily over his frowning forehead, as he jerked his head in acute mental conflict.